The bedroom, into which she peeps on her return from the kitchen, is even more discouraging. There is the bed, with its grey blankets, neatly made, pillows side by side, and there is the wardrobe, door shut, and there is the chest of drawers, drawers closed, top well dusted. The corners of Ivy’s mouth turn down. Thought so, she says to herself.
“What are you doing, Mum?” Mary calls angrily from the other room.
“Nothing, Mary,” says Ivy and goes into the little front room. “How are you?” she asks, as she put the cups down.
“All right,” says Mary. “It’s depressing, all this.”
There is nothing left of Miss Mary of Allaun Towers – nothing left of bad Mary, terror of the railway sidings, from Meakin Street, either. There’s just Mary Flanders now, sixteen years old and pregnant.
She could have done anything with her life, thinks Ivy, her mother. Instead here she is with Jim Flanders, garage mechanic, with a baby on the way. Just sixteen. Poor Mary. Done for, unless she has some luck, poor little cow.
The truth was that the post-war years had made a difference to the way Ivy Waterhouse thought about life. World War II had in some ways broadened people’s horizons. Many of Ivy’s friends and relations had seen foreign countries, at the government’s expense. Everyone had had the chance to look round the inside of other people’s houses, broken open by German bombs. For five years stress had been laid on equality – equal struggle, equal fear and equal rations. Anyone in Meakin Street could see the difference between today’s children, bred on allocations of milk, orange juice and dried egg, and yesterday’s, bred on the dole, scanty wages and desperation. The war ended and a socialist government was returned overwhelmingly. A massively egalitarian programme of reforms was introduced. This, coupled with a boom in all trades due to post-war reconstruction, meant that working-class people were richer and more confident of their rights. As far as the Waterhouses were concerned the increased wages meant a better standard of living.
The rights meant that they could call in a doctor, free, when someone was ill, that bright little Shirley would be able to go to a grammar school later and learn Latin if she wanted to, that even Lil Messiter, with her poor health and household of children, would have an allowance of money for the younger children, no matter what her husband did with his wages, and would get proper medical care when the time came for her to have the new baby.
So it was small wonder that Ivy regarded her daughter Mary so gloomily. Things were better now. Girls didn’t have to be trapped in an early marriage because there was no alternative. And from what she saw, Ivy concluded that Mary was not even happy in her folly. She’d been better off playing the giddy goat up West, like she had, Ivy thought to herself as she walked back down Meakin Street after her visit to Mary. Better doing time in prison for that matter. Surest way to sentence someone for life, that was, she thought – to saddle them with a husband and kid at sixteen years old. At least she, Ivy thought, had had something before it all started – a couple of day trips to Brighton, staying daringly at a boarding house, wearing a brass ring from Woolworth’s and pretending to be married – cockles and mussels and going to the fair, dancing on the pebbles on the beach. And she’d been in love with Sid, too, and from what she saw Mary was not in love with Jim Flanders now, and probably never had been, worse luck for both of them. At this point Ivy suppressed the memory of Mary’s sobbing confession, in the kitchen one day when she came home from work, and of her own scream – “You stupid little bitch!” She also forgot the smacking blow round the face she had delivered, which had sent her daughter staggering back against the wall. Then she had flung on her coat and run up the street to Joe and Elizabeth Flanders’ house. She had begun to knock repeatedly on the new doorknocker, shaped like a galleon, on their newly-painted door. By that time heads were coming out of windows. The Smith boys, loitering home, paused on the pavement to stare at Ivy Waterhouse, her coat unbuttoned, flying up the street to the Flanders’ house. “Whoops-a-daisy,” said Harry Smith to his brother, “Mary’s been and gone and done it, now.”
“Looks like it,” said the other. “Silly cow.”
In the meanwhile Joe Flanders had come to the door and was saying to Ivy, “Ivy! Nothing wrong, is there?”
“Not unless you call your son making my daughter pregnant ‘wrong’,” Ivy cried. “I do – where’s his mum? I want to see her.” And with that she rushed past Joe in the narrow hallway and burst into the front room where Elizabeth Flanders sat knitting and watching the news on TV. The little grey figures flickered as Elizabeth Flanders looked up, startled, and her husband burst in behind Ivy saying, “Ivy! What are you saying?” But Ivy was there first. Standing in front of Elizabeth Flanders with her hands on her hips she cried, “Mary’s having a baby and your Jim’s the father. What are you going to do? I hope you’ll tell him to marry her.”
Elizabeth Flanders looked at her in astonishment and fear. She was a small, grey woman, and at forty years old she seemed more like someone of fifty. Her aim in life was to live as quietly and inoffensively as possible, never interfering, never being interfered with, never doing anything and therefore never making mistakes. Her father, a fierce police sergeant, who now lived in Deal, bullying his roses as once he had bullied his family, had made sure that Liz Flanders would spend her life trying not to offend. This was why Joe Flanders now put his hand on Ivy’s shoulder and said, “Sit down, Ivy, and let’s talk this over sensible.”
“Hah!” snorted Ivy. “Sensible is it? I’d like to see you being sensible if your daughter was in the family way. It’s not sense we need – it’s action. Where is he, anyway? Don’t you think he ought to be here?”
“He’s due back from work any time,” said Liz Flanders. “But – but, if Mary’s expecting as you say, what’s to say the baby’s my Jim’s?”
“What’s to say-what’s to say,” spluttered Ivy. “He’s her boyfriend, isn’t he? She says it’s him. What are you trying to say?”
“That don’t mean –” said Liz Flanders in a failing voice.
“Oh – I see,” said Ivy. “You’re trying to tell me my Mary’s a liar, are you? And she’s playing about with hundreds of them, eh? Every Tom, Dick and Harry that comes along. Now, see here, Elizabeth Flanders – one more word out of you and you’ll regret it, I can guarantee you that.”
“Stand behind me, Joe,” came Elizabeth Flanders’ small, rather childish voice. “She’s going to strike me.”
“No she won’t, Elizabeth,” said Joe Flanders. “Ivy’s come here in good faith –”
“My Jim’s a good boy,” said his mother. “I can’t believe –”
“How dare you sit there and defend him?” cried Ivy. “And where the hell is he, anyway? He should have come with Mary to tell me himself, instead of me having to drag it out of Mary like I did. He must be a nice coward – he can do it all right but he can’t take the consequences. ’Course, he’s lucky – he’s got a mother to hide behind who thinks her son isn’t like every other man in the world – oh, no – her son’s an angel sent from God who doesn’t know the difference between a boy and a girl. My poor girl,” Ivy said melodramatically – and then suddenly thought of Mary’s pallor, her confusion, her inability to understand fully what was happening to her – and burst, herself, into tears. Tears for herself, for Mary and for all women.
“Don’t take on, Ivy,” said Joe. “I think we all need a drink and a talk.”
“Never mind the drink,” said Ivy. “You go and fetch that boy here instantly.” She gave a huge sniff.
“Perhaps if Sid was here you’d be better able to control yourself,” said Liz.
“Don’t sit in that chair telling me to control myself,” sobbed Ivy.
“I’ll go and get him,” muttered Joe, leaving the room.
“Why isn’t Sid here?” said Liz in her little voice. “It would be such a help –”
“Ooh,” said Ivy through gritted teeth. “Ooh – I’ll smash everything in this room if I don�
��t get some sense out of you.” With that, she turned and lifted the clock off the mantelshelf and held it over the fireplace.
Liz Flanders’ pale face flushed. “That was a wedding present.”
“Oh,” said Ivy, loudly and meaningfully, “it was a wedding present, was it? Well, that’s what we’re here trying to talk about, isn’t it? I mean – you’re here with this nice clock on the shelf what you got for a wedding present and my girl’s throwing up every morning, expecting your boy’s kid and no nice wedding presents there on her mantelpiece at the present moment.”
“Please sit down, Ivy. You’re upsetting my nerves. I’m too shaken to talk like this.”
Ivy sat down but put the clock in her lap. “Right,” she said. “Now you’re calmer, I hope.” There was a silence. “Well?” demanded Ivy. “What have you got to say?”
Liz Flanders hesitated. “Can’t she get rid of it?” she said. “Wouldn’t it be better –”
“Nice way to talk about your grandchild,” Ivy observed. “‘Can’t she get rid of it?’ Very nice. Touching. But, as it just so happens, no, she can’t. Because it’s too late. Because I’m not putting my girl in that kind of danger, getting rid of a kid at the stage she’s at, for you or anybody. She’s having it – and that’s that.”
“Didn’t tell you in time, then?” observed Liz.
“Two people didn’t tell me in time,” said Ivy. “My daughter and your son.”
“If he’s the father,” said Liz.
Ivy stood up and was about to hurl the clock into the fireplace when Liz said quickly, “I’m sorry. He’s only a boy, Ivy. Don’t do any damage.”
“I couldn’t do as much damage in a week around here as what your son done to my Mary in five minutes,” Ivy said. “And as to being only a boy – he’s almost twenty-one, Liz. My girl’s just sixteen. I want your guarantee, here and now, that they get married, otherwise this clock goes right through that telly –”
As the crooner on the TV set sang, “So won’t you hurry home tonight, hurry home tonight,” Liz stood up to grab the clock, Ivy pulled it away, Liz grabbed a handful of her hair and, as Ivy twisted away, a chair fell over. At this moment Joe Flanders came in. Behind him, holding hands, were Jim and Mary. Mary still had an angry mark on her face where Ivy had hit her.
“My God!” exclaimed Joe. “What’s going on in here? Elizabeth – sit down. Mrs Waterhouse – would you kindly put that clock back on the mantelpiece. It won’t help to turn the place into a madhouse.”
“I’ll keep the clock,” said Ivy. “Till I’m satisfied.”
“Do as you please,” Joe said. “Well, come on in, you two. Let’s hear what you’ve got to say about all this.”
“There’s nothing to say,” said Ivy. “We’re here to plan the wedding, and that’s that.”
“Who says there’ll be a wedding?” said Liz Flanders. “I’m not sure that’s the best way.”
“Perhaps you’ll tell me what the best way is, then,” said Ivy. “I’d like to hear.”
“Joe,” said his wife. “Are you going to let this woman come round here, try to break up my home and threaten me and still stand there saying nothing? Where’s Sid Waterhouse? Doesn’t anybody think he should be here?”
“Sid’s glued to the telly as usual,” Ivy said calmly. “It don’t matter whether he’s here or not. Your boy’s got my girl in the club, they’ve got to get married and that’s all there is to be said about it. You can get all the MPs in the House of Commons in this room and the facts won’t alter so you can put that in your pipe and smoke it.”
“Joe!” Liz Flanders cried out.
“Don’t seem to me there’s any other way,” Joe Flanders said. “I’ve talked to Jim on the way here. He’s not saying the baby’s not his. He’s willing to marry Mary.”
“Is this true, Jim?” asked Liz Flanders.
“That’s right, Mum,” the young man told her. “Me and Mary have made a bit of a mess of it but we love each other and we want to get married.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Ivy. She put the clock back on the mantelpiece and added, “Seems to me there’s not that much more to be said about it. It’s a pity, but there you are. What’s done’s done and we can’t change anything. Mary and Jim can put up the banns at St Anthony’s as soon as you like. We’ll have a small wedding and a few people round to our house afterwards. Some people would make a party of it anyway but I’m too fed up to turn it into a circus.”
“Right-ho, Ivy,” said Jim’s father. “All right by you, Liz?”
“I suppose so,” said Liz Flanders. She bent her head angrily towards the television, where a comedian was telling jokes in an American accent.
There was a silence in the room. “Well, then,” said Ivy briskly. “We’d better go and tell Sid.”
“Drink before you go?” Joe suggested weakly.
“No, thanks,” said Ivy. “We’d better be setting off.” She sounded as if she and Mary were about to travel the length of London, not just walk down Meakin Street. In the doorway Jim Flanders whispered to Mary, “Same place tonight, Mare?” Mary just nodded and walked past him. In the street she said to her mother, “I don’t want to get married, Mum.”
“Should have thought of that earlier,” was Ivy’s reply.
“For two pins I’d run away,” Mary said.
“What’s the point – you wouldn’t be running alone,” said Ivy grimly. She felt defeated. She had had hopes for her clever, pretty Mary. She could have married well, got something out of life. Now all she had was an early, forced marriage to Jim Flanders, a nice enough lad, but not the sort to set the Thames on fire. That was it, she thought, you did your best and broke your back and this was the outcome in the end. If Mary had come to her sooner maybe something could have been done – as it was, the silly bitch was nearly five months gone when she finally told the truth. There was no way out, now. And there was still Sid to tell. He’d shout the odds and then disappear down the Marquis of Zetland and get drunk. A big help. Feeling very old, Ivy led Mary into 19 Meakin Street. “Get upstairs, Mary,” she told her daughter flatly, “while I break it to your father.”
Upstairs, Mary sat on her bed in the summer heat and stared at the upper windows of the houses opposite. She felt tired and numb. She could not believe, really, that she was going to have a baby, nor that she was going to marry Jim Flanders. She knew things like that were not supposed to happen to her. Her stomach felt very heavy. Perhaps, she thought, this was how things did happen to people – suddenly, without their wanting them to, without any plans being made.
Numbly, she thought it seemed like a dismal prospect, looking after Jim and cooking his meals and minding the baby. But other girls didn’t seem to mind – the trouble was she had never seen herself like that. There must, she thought desperately, be some way of not being bored and poor and depressed. She asked herself whether she loved Jim and decided it was a stupid question now, anyway. She didn’t love him as much as she had before she found out about the baby, or even, really, before she fell for the baby in the first place. She supposed having a baby put you off love and perhaps, afterwards when she’d got it, she would be in love again. Anyway, Ivy said she had to get married so she had to get married. What else could she do? Now Dad was going to go on and on at her and maybe have a row with Joe Flanders in the street and she felt so tired, so tired …
It must, she thought sleepily, have been the night of the break-in. They’d all had a few drinks and the boys, on pints, while the girls had Babychams, had got bold and boastful in a pub up West. Jim Flanders had been one of the boldest, she thought, not like he was when she told him about the baby. Then he’d been angry and afraid, thought if they ignored it it would somehow go away. She’d known better, in her heart of hearts, but had gone along with the idea because he was older. Which was stupid. She could see now that it did not matter whether you were older or not. It was whether the thing was growing in your body, or somebody else’s. But there it was. He had
thought the problem would disappear. She had believed that somehow, miraculously, it would all turn out to be a dream. Nothing would happen in the end. A friend of a friend of Cissie Messiter’s, Mary thought, was supposed to have had a baby in the ladies’ at Charing Cross Station because she didn’t know what it was all about. “Didn’t want to know, most likely,” Cissie had said. “Hid it from herself, that’s what.” It had been Cissie who had detected her own pregnancy, in the end. It was Cissie who had told her firmly she must tell Ivy. “A girl’s best friend is her mother in this type of situation,” she had said. “And Ivy’ll make him marry you. You can’t pick and choose, Mary. You’ve got nothing else to do.” She had ended her remarks on a typical note, “You’ve no one to blame but yourself.”
Well, it was that night of the break-in, Mary thought, when they had strolled in the darkness down a cobbled mews near Grosvenor Square, where the old stables were being converted into small, expensive houses. “Aren’t they sweet,” Cissie had said. “I wouldn’t half like one of them.” Then Harry Smith, from up the street, had said, “Fat hopes, my love. These aren’t for the likes of you and me,” and had added, “No – careless, though, aren’t they. Look at that – ladders all over the place, scaffolding everywhere and no light but that little one at the end of the street. Asking for trouble, though, aren’t they?”
“No lights on in half these houses, the completed ones,” Jim had said, going a little further down the mews.
“Quite an opportunity for a likely lad,” Harry said, following him.
Cissie, from the far end of the mews, said, “I’d have thought you wouldn’t be bothered to think like that, Harry. With your father put away again, like he is.” For Harry’s father had no sooner been released from the German prisoner-of-war camp than, after being caught trying to open a safe in a house in Knightsbridge, he was back as a prisoner again, this time in a British jail. And that sentence had been followed by another. But red-headed Harry’s swagger in the darkened mews, his defiant, “Shut up, Cissie,” proved that he had learned nothing from his father’s example.
All The Days of My Life Page 13
